LYRIC

This home, it groans, its hand-cut stones, were laid in centuries
By men with heart and worn out hands, their names and deeds, they fade.
If I can't live in this old head and loving memory
If I should lose this one last face, I pray my soul to take.

This building greys with whithered souls that yearn and pine for lives
That shone and kicked and stoned and ran and stumble now in time.

And if in time we meet again, in heaven or in mind,
I pray the Lord my soul to take and all my blood to mind.

Break out the bottles, 'cause all I can offer
Is talking and drinking with you.

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